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Gledwood's Drug Confessions: A Heroin Addict's Blog
Wednesday, 10 January 2007
2 Great Poets
Mood:  suave
Now Playing: the intellectual...
Topic: Poetry

Another poetry book I found is a dull-looking schoolbook. Longman English Series Poetry 1900-1965. (A lot of these collections contain only British and sometimes "Commonwealth" writers but not American. Which irritates me. We all speak English and one of my favourite poets was American (Sylvia Plath)— I particularly like her Insomniac click I'm sorry about all the ads around it.

Another favourite (who I consider a great poet, not just a great war poet — Wilfred Owen. Two of his best are Dulce et Decorum Est (click and Futility (click As I said (somewhere) I'm going to start a poetry blog. Maybe I'll post on it all my faves as well as my own dubious & uneven works. Sometimes I've found stuff by myself and thought "wow — did I really write that?" It doesn't seem possible. Other times I just read stuff back and cringe. It's taken quite some willpower not to remove certain past postings (or bits of them).

But, talking of execrable verse, did no-one like my William McGonnagal? It's difficult to pick out single quotes that sum up the full grandeur of this man's prowess. But these lines out of Jottings of New York ( give a good idea of why people say of him "he's so bad, he's good":—

And Brooklyn Bridge is a very great height,
And fills the stranger's heart with wonder at first sight,
But with all its loftiness, I venture to say,
For beauty it cannot surpass the new Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay.

(He loves his bridges on the "silvery" River Tay ( He also wrote some lines on The Tay Bridge Disaster, and a lovely work on the railway's replacement

And, believe me, the morning I sailed from New York
For Bonnie Dundee, my heart it felt as light as a cork.


Mr McGonnagal said his best time of year for public readings was Easter, as the crowds seemed to have less spare supplies of eggs to hand...

Posted by gledwood at 2:00 PM GMT
Updated: Wednesday, 10 January 2007 2:55 PM GMT
Tuesday, 9 January 2007
Gledwood's Poetry Corner
Mood:  flirty
Now Playing: the Bard
Topic: Poetry

ONE OF THE WONDERS of a good clear-out is the stuff you find you never knew you had.  The following poetry I salvaged from my old Green poem collection... I don't know what to say about them, except these are three of the best ones (so just imagine what the worst are like!!) I've not written any poetry at all (to the best of my memory) in the last ten years. Oh yeah. Except that wonderful mousey song you'll find posted some time in December. Because I remember t'was the season for "Little Donkey"-type carols anyhow. Oh, and BTW; concerning these three:— that last one, the wanderer. How grim, eh!?! Hmm...

If anyone has a comment/comments I'd be interested to hear what people think of these. They don't seem to be quite as crappy as I remembered.

PS If you want a real laugh, go for a poke through the works of William Topaz McGonnagal. The Tay Bridge Disaster is one of his best known works. Click here for an entertaining read: The closing couplet is fantastic. My American friends might prefer to start with Jottings of New York: — a "Topaz" command performance.  Not, to my mind, as boringly Victorian as his Tay Bridge ejaculation, in it he murders one's sense of the sublime more practisedly & is altogether entertaininger. See what you think.

Anyhow, folks; here's me:—

Embankment by Night

A thousand lights are hanging in the Thames,

garlands strewn by swirl and tide

into a protoplasm of stars

echoing reticence of frosty night;

glitter so gladly and so bright.

I wish to touch their candied radience,

they lift me like a trip,

smiling, splashed, fantasticated suns

immune to miseries of wind and cold,

shards of celebration drawn from sleep,

the cosmos of a reverie reflected

in the blood of a town too jaded to dream.

                                          11 January 1997



What are words for?

Words make use of breathing:

consciousness of living:

they tell us we can hear.

Lips and faces.

What are faces for?

If not for telling who we are.

And how we feel

and how we are.

Words can lie; but eyes find flickered feeling.

Without eyes, faces have no meaning.

Then only words could tell the truth

or lie.

Do you see?

                                          7 January 1997 

The Wanderer

The evening wanderer moves

amongst the shadows of the night:

the world of people is passed

and dusk takes its own.

Day by daylight he moves,

a shadow among people;

a ruined church

in a thicket of lost graves.

Night by light the days

pass like speeding cars;

merge, drop by drop

in some forgotten pool...

Grey memories crowd

in sleepy groves, shades

of shadow-cities gather

gloating in the gloom, attentive.

The cold fingers of past

caress his throat,

tightening like strange dreams;

a whispering: "Remember me."

And when the wanderer rests,

his bed will be his grave.


Copyright © 2007 by Gledwood all rights reserved & all...

Posted by gledwood at 8:56 PM GMT
Updated: Tuesday, 9 January 2007 10:33 PM GMT

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